Extreme Unemployment
by SkinIsACanvas
Summary: Jackson is out of a job. And along the way, he learns that there is a fine line between domesticity and danger and that a taste of normalcy is all it takes to catalyze an addiction.
There were many theories on how Lisa Reisert had been murdered. For a few weeks during August, the story of her death had been one of the most followed topics across the country. Thousands of theories of her involvement with the Keefe assassination attempt and the mysterious man she claimed held her hostage began to circle in almost every household in America. She was found in her Miami living room with two neat bullets in her head; she didn't suffer. In the month of November, theories skyrocketed when Keefe was found dead in his bathtub two months after his savior had fallen.

Jackson wasn't surprised when it happened. He was in his New York apartment watching the ten o'clock news over a bowl of cornflakes when he heard. It had been a long night of drinking and smoking, an indulgence he saved specifically for this city. A vacation was a vacation no matter what the occupation. He was just contemplating going out onto the balcony and having his last cigar when he heard the familiar voice on the television.

"Breaking news: Lisa Resiert, hero of the Keefe assassination attempt has been found dead at her home in Miami, Florida. There are no suspects in custody at the moment but police have given a statement where they revealed that foul play is suspected." The news anchor said it with a professional solemnity that put Jackson to shame. He couldn't say he was surprised that she ended up dead only two years after the incident, but he wasn't prepared for it that morning. He would never admit to dropping his cornflakes all over his lap when the news got to him, but the mysterious stain on his couch was the cause of ridicule for years to come.

Jackson was even less surprised when news of Keefe's death was broadcast across the country. People went into panic, calling it an emergency of national security that put a hold on the whole 'Trump for President' bullshit for a few weeks. He found himself thanking Keefe's killers for picking now to do it so he could get away from the media frenzy that focused solely on the joke of a man with a blonde rat on top of his head.

It took Jackson mere weeks to put the two deaths behind him. Well, at least that's what he told himself. No one believed him but they gave him space to grieve: to grieve the innocent life of Lisa Reisert, to grieve the loss of a job he had botched, to grieve the massive amounts of money he had lost in his failure that had gone to whoever finished the job now.

"Hey, Jack."

Jackson winced. He hated that name.

"Lana."

She sat down next to him, handing him a mug of coffee. "You never say hi, you just say my name."

"You never knock, you just move into my apartment when you feel like it."

"Fair enough."

He took a sip of the coffee and immediately spit it out, just missing Lana's head and hitting the wall behind her. "This cup of coffee is a crime against humanity."

Lana tilted her head as she watched him and took a sip of her own coffee, spitting it out and hitting him square in the chest. He shook his head. Did this have to happen every morning she was here?

"Switch?" she asked, holding out the cup that was meant for him as a peace offering.

"Can't let the drink of the gods go to waste." He attempted a smile as they exchanged mugs of the one thing that kept him from dropping dead asleep wherever he went.

There was silence with only the low buzz of the television to fill the room, playing some reruns of The Office. It was one of the better mornings. Much different from the ones he spent running from gunfire and driving over medians to get away from people who wanted him dead.

"Any jobs?"

"Lana."

"What?"

"You know I've been out of jobs for two years now."

"You could get a job as a greeter at Target? A barista at Starbucks?" Lana smirked at her. She never did that before she met him, but after all the time they spent together, it was an impossible trait not to pick up.

"I'll put on a green apron and make chai lattes for spoiled brats when hell freezes over." Jackson smirked back. "And I think I'll be going to hell before that happens."

"You're gonna run out of money soon." Lana pointed out. "You're living it up like Elvis and he had millions. You're just some guy named Jackson who lives in New York and has a coffee stain shaped like a potato shape on the front of his shirt."

"If I'm Elvis, does that make you Priscilla?"

"Stop trying to change the subject, Jack."

He winced again.

"Why do you do that?" Lana inquired, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. It took him intense concentration not to pull away from her caring fingertips.

"Bad memories."

"Do you want me to stop calling you that?"

He looked from her concerned face to the hand that rested against him. Her fingernails were painted olive, her favorite color. He thought about it.

"No." he decided. "It's okay."

Lana gave him a quick smile of reassurance and went back to her coffee. They drank and stared out the window, watching the Manhattan traffic flood the streets as the wind blew the leaves off the trees. Jackson had never experienced something so domestic and normal. Under the light of his balcony window, he could almost pretend like he didn't know what it felt like to drive a knife into someone's chest and watch as the life left their eyes or carefully slip a sewing needle into the pupil of a man who screamed until his lungs betrayed him. Almost.

"You put way too much sugar in your coffee." Jackson commented, leaning against the wall and resting his head on the ugly yellow painted thing.

"Me? Your coffee is as black and bitter as your soul!"

If only she knew just how true that were. She didn't know what it was like to kill or maim or torture like he did. And the worst part of it for him was that she didn't know that he knew what it was like to kill, maim, and torture.

Despite their bonding over time and her random appearances at his apartment for days at a time, there was always a disconnect between them that he sensed but she never could. Lana was normal and domestic while he could only feign those things.

"Maybe you should try caramel." Lana suggested. "It might soften you up a little bit."

"Maybe I should, Lana. Maybe I should."

 **Author's Note:**

 **It has been so long since I've written, it finally feels nice to get back into it. Just recently watched this movie again and I have been absolutely inspired. However, I might not be able to update this as frequently as I want because of my schedule and because inspiration is a fickle thing. Jackson is gr8 tho so I'm gonna try my best for his sake.**


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